


TIME AND HEARTS

by bogunicorn



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Universe - BDSM, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Amputee Inquisitor, BDSM, BDSM contract, Bisexual Inquisitor (Dragon Age), Bisexual Solas (Dragon Age), Dom Solas (Dragon Age), Dom/sub, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Kink Negotiation, Light Drama, Mental Health Issues, Minor The Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus, Modern Thedas, Past Female Inquisitor/Blackwall - Freeform, Past Female Inquisitor/Vivienne, Past Female Lavellan/Solas, Past Male Lavellan/Solas, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Safe Sane and Consensual, Sex Club, Subspace, professor solas
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:48:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26448805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bogunicorn/pseuds/bogunicorn
Summary: “We should probably talk about this,” she says, humming contentedly when he squeezes the back of her neck. “We’re just going to keep finding excuses to be here. We’re… —-We’ll hurt each other if we aren’t careful.”Solas’s mouth presses into a line. He glances away, his eyes soft. He’s like her, she notes, his emotions so close to the surface that even when he’s trying to hold them in, she can see the shape of them under his skin. He’s given her so few specific details that perhaps it is — she knows it is — foolish to already feel so attached.TIME AND HEARTS is a Modern Thedas Solavelyan BDSM AU. Updates semi-regularly.
Relationships: Female Inquisitor/Solas (Dragon Age), Solas/Female Trevelyan
Comments: 10
Kudos: 23





	1. sailing on a ship in a bottle

**Author's Note:**

> Hey (you might be thinking), this has a suspiciously similar premise to the last fic you published, what gives? And to you I would say: you’re right, it does, I did it on purpose.
> 
> The old version of this one heavily featured the death of the protagonist’s boyfriend and her lyrium addiction/recovery. Unfortunately, in late July my wife nearly died (she’s having a rough recovery but she is going to be okay!), and I am ~not totally okay~ and can’t bring myself to continue the old fic with those elements in it.
> 
> So! The old version is still there if you’d like to read it for whatever reason, but this is the new and improved version I’m actually working on going forward. No dead boyfriend, no addiction subplot, likely much less ~dark edgy drama~ than I originally intended and much more romantic/slice of life/feel good stuff. The editing is fairly light, but I would say it’s different enough that if you read the old one and came here to pick up where it left off, I’d suggest just starting from the beginning anyway. Thanks for sticking with me if you came from Loving is Fine. I know this is a weird way to go about things.
> 
> ANYWAY. Any chapter with explicit sexual content will have a * next to the name. The tags and warnings for the fic as a whole will stay consistent, but each chapter will have individual content warnings/kinks/etc as they go up.
> 
> My intention is to write a healthy, communicative BDSM story, but this is not a How To Do Kink guide or my attempt at a Definitive Kink Narrative. Certain parts of getting to know you or negotiation in the beginning may be truncated or seem skipped for the sake of keeping the narrative going and jumping right into the good stuff. (Which, btw, starts late in Chapter 2 if you’re just here for the porn.) Though they aren’t currently in the tags, I expect to be adding F/F scenes, threesomes, polyamory and a possible triad relationship in the future.
> 
> Mind the tags, be good to each other, etc etc. If you want to see Thayet’s face, I’ve drawn her a couple times and posted it on ~bogunart on tumblr. I’ve also linked to my Spotify playlist - Spotify Fic Writing Playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1Nq6SVqE936s4uQW8rIg0W?si=aobttn57TwmnTj8hbRp6Mg -for writing this one; all the songs I get my chapter titles from will be listed first, with the one I got the fic title for at the top.
> 
> The other notes won’t be this long, I promise. Enjoy!
> 
> (OH P.S. Blackwall and Trevelyan had a bad breakup so she’ll probably trash talk him a bit, but I don’t hate him and I promise this isn’t a Blackwall Hate Fic. No bashing, just an appropriate amount of salt from his ex.)

From the sky, Kirkwall looks like a patchwork city. Thayet has seen enough maps to make guesses about which part is which; the massive bronze Twins of Kirkwall are visible even from the plane, and so the big brown area the channel leads to must be the docks, still old-fashioned and mostly carved directly from the stone. The whole city is like that, rising right out of the rock, the Hightown skyscrapers like crystals growing out of a cavern wall. The bright, underpopulated swaths of green must be the Gardens, the section of Kirkwall where all the estates are clustered together, well out of reach of the poorer parts.

The rest is harder, but she thinks she can pick out the colorful market district in Lowtown, a glimpse of the massive tree in the old alienage, the dark stone apartments in Darktown. The rest is all a blur. She read in a magazine once that Kirkwall had all been built piecemeal on fault lines and mining tunnels, that only dwarves have the stone-sense to make it from one end of the city to another without getting hopelessly lost. People had wandered right into the sea before GPS.

It’s a place to get lost in. There are much worse places to be.

Stannard International is a _maze_.

Thayet looks like shit. She kind of feels like shit. She’s sweaty, she hasn’t slept, she’s strung out from the flight. It was _cold_ in Denerim when she’d left, and the early-summer Free Marcher humidity is like a bucket of water dumped over her head, immediately making her loose sweater _itchy_. She’d been so pleased with herself and the glamorous image of walking out of the airport, aesthetically disheveled in sunglasses and toting a giant cup of coffee, that she hadn’t taken the plane ride itself into consideration. That sleep deprived college student look — capri style yoga pants, cute pink sneakers, an artfully big sweater that falls to her thighs, a low braid to make it easier to rest her head on the plane — had been cute twelve hours ago, though.

Instead, the reality: wandering around SI like an idiot, reading and rereading signs until she starts to wonder what’s more important, her luggage or finding somewhere to pee. She decides to duck into a bathroom. She does her business, emerges to wash her hands and her face, and nearly rips her sweater getting it off. She stuffs it into her carry-on and forces the zipper shut with such bitter ferocity that she’s afraid to open it again. The small duffel bag bounces, overstuffed, against her hip while she sets out again for the baggage claim.

The heat outside is worse, and she’s pretty sure that her tank top is clinging so hard to her bra she might as well take that off too, but none of that matters.

What matters is Dorian Pavus and The Iron Bull.

Bull is impossible to miss. There are a lot of Qunari in Kirkwall these days, and he isn’t the only one at Arrivals, but he still stands out. It’s the horns, the geometric tattoos, the eyepatch, but even without any of that, Thayet would know him anywhere. When he spots her, his voice booms over the crowd.

“Boss! You made it alive!” 

“Bull! I’m not dead!”

Bull hauls her up into a crushing hug that leaves her feet dangling a foot and a half off the ground. He’s solid as a rock, and Thayet clings tight, smiling so hard her face hurts.

When he sets her down, Dorian is waiting, having dragged himself out of the car. There’s never been so decadently dramatic a person as Dorian Pavus. He wears layers of designer clothes no matter the heat, he always smells _amazing_ , he spends more time on his makeup than Thayet does (which is saying something), he refuses to leave the house with so much as a hair out of place, and he’s determined to bring the curled, waxed mustache back into fashion. If he leaves the house without looking like the cover of a Tevinter fashion magazine, it’s because he’s slinking to the convenience store for wine and cigarettes and nothing else.

Today, he’s also wearing fashionably large sunglasses, and he makes a show of sighing in exaggerated concern. “My dear. My darling. You look _dreadful_. What did they do on that plane, host a hot yoga class? I’m embarrassed to be seen in public with you, you poor thing.”

“Oh, so if I hugged you, you might combust with shame, is that it?” Thayet grins and pulls him in for a sweaty hug, pressing an obnoxiously noisy kiss to his cheek.

Dorian squirms with an obvious _ugh_ , but when he works his way out of her grip, he comes right back into it. He cradles her face in his hands, the metal rings on his fingers cool against her cheek. He must have been holding them in front of the AC in the car. “I missed this face.” He punctuates the sentiment by returning her kiss, pressing it to her opposite cheek.

“I missed you, too, Dorian.”

“Of course you did. Your life has been dreadfully empty without me.”

By then Bull has loaded her luggage into the back of the car, a custom purple convertible with the top down. It’s Dorian’s car, a veritable relic from the days when _any_ of them were in contact with their families.

Bull drives, Dorian takes shotgun, and Thayet drops herself into the backseat lengthwise. If she doesn’t stretch out, the cramping in her legs might kill her. It’s not legal, but most cops don’t bother pulling them over when Bull drives. It’s not worth the effort. Bull drapes his free hand over the back of the seats to wrap his arm around Dorian, his reach long enough to do so comfortably. 

She’s known them for years, since shortly after the end of the Blight, when she’d still been recovering from her amputation. They’d all been living in Val Royeaux at the time, Bull for work and Dorian studying abroad. They’d all met at a lurid and _incredibly_ fashionable underground kink club called _Haven_ , and the rest would always be history.

These days, Dorian and Bull are the only constant she has left. Everyone else comes in and out of her life, but not them.

Thayet could live in this moment forever, and for a few minutes she pretends that she will: the bright blue sky, the backlit silhouettes in the front seat, the good-natured bickering over what to put on the radio, a painfully obscure indie singer or the heavy metal Bull’s been getting into lately.

Bull breaks her out of her daydreams.

"You ready to see the new place? Dorian decorated your room already, hope you don't mind."

"I made it more welcoming!" Dorian insists. "You'll love it and you'll thank me."

Thayet chuckles, reaching up to fondly scratch Dorian's shoulder. "It's fine, I trust you. It'll be an improvement. I'm so done traveling today, I just want to get home, change clothes, and get my arm off."

"It need a tune up, Boss?" Bull asks. The nickname is just as affectionate and familiar as Dorian's _my darling_. "We know a girl uptown who's good with that stuff."

Thayet examines her left hand, sunlight glinting off the metal. The beautiful, delicately crafted prosthesis makes elegant whirring sounds when she flexes her fingers. She can’t quite feel, but the magic woven into the metal gives her fin control. On her best days, she can almost perceive things brushing over it, like having a limb that’s mostly asleep. The maker’s mark — a stylized _D_ — is etched among the silver patterns on the inside of her elbow.

“It’s fine for now. I’ll probably fly back to Val Royeaux if it needs a tune up; Dagna might kill me if I took it to someone else.” She drops her arm back onto her belly.

Dorian half turns to look at her. He's good about not giving her _pity_ , but that flicker of a moment when he decides between doting softness and glib distraction is painful to watch. Today he picks softness. "If you're _sure_.”

“I’m _sure_ ,” Thayet echoes, reaching over and lovingly tapping Dorian’s chin with her metal fingers. “I do know how to live without it for a while if it needs repairing. It’s all right.”

Dorian looks at her for another moment before huffing dramatically. “Well. Asymmetry is very _in_ this season in the Free Marches. You’ll be flawless either way.”

Thayet _laughs_. They’d had nothing but phone calls for the last few months. Nothing beat Dorian in the flesh. “You’re a sweetheart, Dorian.”

“Slanderous lies, my darling. I’ll sue if you say that in public.”

Bull and Dorian had rented the apartment largely without Thayet’s input. When they had found it, Thayet had been busy and overwhelmed, though Dorian had kept her appraised on a daily basis. He had gone to the trouble of saving and organizing the website’s photos and descriptions, calling her and sifting through his own cloud drive with her like a persnickety real estate agent.

At the time, it had felt like white noise. Thinking of a new home while life in her current one fell apart hadn’t felt _real_. She had listened to Dorian with half a mind, trying and failing to mentally piece together the layout of the three-bedroom, two-bath Lowtown flat. Dorian always knew when her attention had well and truly drifted, and had eventually pivoted to making up wild, ridiculous rumors about their future neighbors for the rest of the calls.

She would have lived in a dumpster with him, anyway.

As a result, she doesn’t recognize it when they pull up. The building is an old-fashioned brownstone, three apartments across and three apartments high, a shiny new fire escape crawling up the side. They’ve had the good fortune to snag the floor level apartment at the end.

They have a pair of parking spaces in the lot, where Dorian’s sleek purple car looks tiny next to Bull’s giant SUV. Bull picks up her bags before she can insist on carrying them, and her luggage — a carry on, one medium and one large suitcase — dwarfed in his hands.

It’s all she has. She’d sold all of her furniture and extra belongings in Val Royeaux and given Dorian and Bull her pension checks while they’d been shopping around to help with moving expenses. Bull in particular had been stubborn about not giving her numbers, and as a result, she has no idea what they’d spent on this place so far. She doesn’t know what the rent is, either, though she’d been assured that her half is less than her monthly stipend. (It can’t be _that high_. It’s a big place, but it’s in an iffy part of Lowtown at best.)

She makes a mental note to ask about that.

“This is the foyer,” Dorian says as he leads the way in, gesturing as if it’s some wide, grand entrance hall. (It is, of course, just a little foyer with a closet, a shoe rack, and a little wall mirror. It’s wide enough that Bull can comfortably move around.) He waits for her to kick off her sneakers before leading them into the living room. “And the parlor, of course, for all our visiting needs.”

He goes on like that from room to room. The apartment is fully decorated; Dorian is a _collector_ , a connoisseur of eclectic, strange, and gothic things, as long as they’re beautiful. The Iron Bull barely owns anything at all, and so their home looks like Dorian’s personal dollhouse. It’s a sensibility he shares with Thayet, who likes the comfort of being surrounded with visual interest and artistry. He gives a tour as if it’s the Winter Palace, even presenting the laundry nook with a flourish (though she suspects he’s never stood in there for more than five minutes until now).

The third bedroom has been turned into a study, mostly for Dorian so he isn’t doing magic in the living room. His and Bull’s own bedroom is predictably decadent, the centerpiece of it a massive custom king with a wrought iron frame.

And then, hers. Thayet pauses, taken aback.

Dorian’s taken care with it. He’s made it less macabre but no less populated with comforting decoration: more feminine, more floral, sunset colors dominated by a soft, warm purple tone. The curtains are delicate vintage lace, the vanity already populated by empty little organizational boxes for her makeup, a brand new set of brushes with shiny silver handles and soft, fat beauty blenders lined up in a row. The closet is technically a walk in, but it’s small, and beside the sliding door is a heavy, solid wood armoire, doors open and waiting to be filled with clothes. 

The king size four-poster is overflowing with a smattering of vintage pillows that must have taken Dorian at least a couple of weeks to find, and sitting in the middle is a chubby stuffed nug that Bull’s partner Krem must have made for her. There are fresh flowers in the windowsill, vintage perfume bottles lined up on the wall, empty and reflecting the light.

It’s _just hers_. After months of extracting her life from someone else’s in her old apartment, her room in Val Royeaux had become strange and cold. Her belongings had been lost in a sea of blank space and abandoned spaces, so much that she hadn’t thought much of tossing it away when things had crumbled. Now she has this: a comfortable, private place that’s never been shared or reclaimed.

“ _Dorian_.” Thayet turns back and pulls him into a tight hug. “This… this is _lovely_.”

Dorian hugs her back without hesitation, now that there are no strangers to spy on them. “It’s what you deserve. I always thought your old bedroom had too much of a butch, rugged aesthetic. It just wasn’t _you_. Good riddance, I say. To that and to Blackwall himself. Or Thom. Or Rainier. Or whatever the fuck his name is.”

“Ugh, tell me about it.” She extracts herself from his arms, wandering into the room and brushing her fingers over the sleek wooden vanity. “This is cute. Where did you get this? Tell me you didn’t buy it new; this is hardwood.”

“I didn’t,” Dorian insists, taking a seat on her bed and crossing his legs. Bull’s already been in here, leaving the suitcases leaning against the footboard. “Bull made that.”

“Bull _made_ it?” The heat of tears builds up in her nose, and she pinches it to hold them back.

“Oh, yes. Especially since moving, he’s been restless. He’s cycled through some truly _dreadful_ hobbies since you’ve been away—-” Like she was on vacation, like she was sunbathing in Rivain the whole time. “---and picked up woodworking out of the blue a month ago. Our neighbors _hated_ it, but you know how he is. A man possessed.”

A pause.

“Well, let’s not put it that way in front of him, but you know what I mean.” Dorian gestures, brushing away the faux pas. “He built in all sorts of secret little compartments, he’s very proud. He built the wardrobe, too, when I told him that closet is not _nearly_ big enough.”

Thayet drops herself onto the bed, warmth and emotion blooming in her chest. She’s always been an emotional person, but since her breakup with Blackwall — _Thom_ , ugh — she’s a little more fragile, loathe to admit it as she is.

“How _is_ Bull doing? Other than trying to build my whole bedroom.”

Dorian bristles, like a cat taken off guard by sudden affection. “Oh, he’s Bull. Brutish, embarrassing, horribly sappy. Ever since we moved in here it’s _let’s look at curtains, Dorian_ and _I want to talk about my **feelings** , Dorian_. Insufferable.”

Thayet smiles crookedly. “Aw.”

“Hush, you.”

“Mm-hm. So nobody from the Qun has tried to get in contact…?”

“ _Well_. No.” Dorian sounds off-balance when he says it, an answer without an answer. “They’ve sent him some letters and left some questionable messages, but nobody has tried to speak to him in person since he had that falling out with Gatt. Bull isn’t sure if they’ve given up or if they’re taking a break, however. You know how difficult they can be to get away from.”

Thayet reaches over and takes Dorian’s hand, squeezing tight. They were both _there_ when Bull had left the Qun, and there’s no doubt that Bull’s old friends put some blame on _her_ for his turning Tal-Vashoth. But it’s been months since anyone has tried to contact her to warn her away, and for all intents and purposes, the Qun seems to have given up.

“This is a new start for all of us,” Thayet says firmly. “We need it. We’re all going to be _fine_. The three of us don’t need the Qun or our parents or Blackwall — _Thom_ — whatever, I don’t care.” Her voice gradually wets with tears, uncomfortably thick when she trips over his name.

“Thayet.” Dorian wraps an arm around her, gripping her shoulders in both hands and giving her a short, firm shake, just to center her. “Stop. He hardly deserves your tears, and you know how I _loathe_ dramatics.”

Tears are creeping down her cheeks, but she _laughs._ She laughs so hard her stomach hurt, until she’s too overwhelmed to cry, until Dorian has to remind her to _breathe_.

Everything is going to be fine.

At 2am, it is not fine.

Thayet wakes up mid-panic attack, jarred out of an obscenely vivid dream that she can’t fully recall. Her left arm aches, a horrible, piercing cramp that shoots through parts of the limb that are no longer there. She sits up, only to curl up into a ball, shoving a pillow into her lap just for something soft to touch, though it barely helps.

She stays like that for at least an hour, huddled up and crying into the pillow. In another life, Blackwall would have been there, waking with her, holding her until the pain subsides. It happens less than it used to, the episodes separated now by months, but it’s always like going back to the first time. Blackwall had been so good with it from the start, gentle and patient even when the aching had lasted for hours.

His voice would be so easy to conjure up now, like she always had when they’d been separated during an episode, but now it comes with a kneejerk sense of shame that does nothing but make it worse. She’d been a fool to trust him. She should have seen through him. She’d wanted so badly to have a partner, to be needed, to need someone _else_ , that she’d overlooked the obvious lies and red flags.

Well. She’s paying for that stupidity now. It’s her own fault for building a home on a shaky foundation.

The pain gradually subsides, but it leaves her too tense to get back to sleep. She gropes for her phone to check the time: 3:14am. Far too late to wake anyone. With a sigh, she shuffles out of bed for slippers and her bathrobe.

Using her phone’s flashlight to guide her, Thayet picks her way through the unfamiliar apartment, looking for the door. She could use some air. She gets lost — twice — and the second time she winds up in the kitchen and swipes Dorian’s cigarettes just for good measure.

When she finally find the back door and the patio, she’s nearly blinded by the nearby street lamp. It’s quiet out here, the witching hour on a street that rarely hears silence. There’s a little patio table with a trio of chairs, though she can’t imagine that Bull actually fits in any of them.

She’s seated with a cigarette (a long menthol with a glamorous sounding Orlesian name) before she realizes she doesn’t have a light. By then it’s already in her mouth, and it feels like an imposition to take it out, smelling the minty tobacco without actually smoking it.

Clicking off her flashlight, she lazily sifts through social media, still holding the cigarette between her lips. There’s nothing good, of course, it’s a middle of the night, but she needs the white noise in her brain to distract from the lingering numbness in her left arm.

“Hey, Boss.”

Thayet jumps, automatically reaching for her bad elbow and nearly out of her seat until Bull’s massive have rests gently on her shoulder. She breathes a sigh of relief when she looks up, even though his face is mostly shadowed.

“ _Hey_.”

“Sorry for scaring you. Didn’t think I was that quiet.”

“It’s all right. I needed the distraction anyway.” Thayet stashes her phone away in her robe pocket, snuggled up with the stolen cigarettes.

Bull sits across from her. He does actually fit into the chair, though just barely — and without her asking, he offers her a lighter. Dorian’s, obviously, from the fancy little pattern on the side. She fumbles with it for a moment, her hand still shaking, and Bull gives her a solid minute of struggle before reaching over to take it back again. Thayet lets out a resigned little sigh and patiently waits for a light.

The nicotine hits her and takes the edge off of her shaking. She’d never been a smoker before losing her arm. She still _isn’t_ , but the whole … _everything_ with Blackwall has given her more excuses than usual.

Bull lets her sit in silence for a long, vital drag. She leans back, boneless, propping her elbow against the arm of the chair. There’s an ashtray in arm’s length, sitting on the railing of the patio, a pristine and shiny little bowl that looks like stained glass. It feels almost wrong to get it dirty.

“You can’t sleep either…?” She flicks ash into the bowl.

“Nah, I sleep all right. I heard you get up.”

Thayet winces. “You don’t need to get up every time you hear me do it. I always sleep a little strangely in a new place.”

Bull shrugs. He’s in shorts and nothing else; Bull has a love-hate relationship with shirts in general, and he sleeps naked when he can get away with it (which is almost always). He’s even left his eye patch and his leg brace in the bedroom. She must have been engrossed in her phone, if she didn’t hear the heavy sound of his limp against the hardwood floor.

“You can give it a week before that Don’t Take Care of Me shit settles in, all right?”

“I was telling Dorian, you did too much.” Thayet takes another drag, speaks through the smoke. “I _appreciate_ it, but please don’t think you have to—-”

“What did I _just say_?” Bull purses his lips, staring her down until she slumps a little. 

“I don’t want to put you out,” she eventually says, quiet but stubborn. 

“Tell you what, Boss: I’m going to buy a spray bottle and spritz you like a cat every time you say shit like that.”

Thayet snorts, half covering it with her hand. "Yeah, all right." She flicks ash off her cigarette, watching the light pass through the ashtray and throw tiny little rainbows onto the railing.

"Did you and Dorian move in together just because of me? You're obviously happy together, but…"

She sees Bull relax, just a little bit. For such a big, loud man, he's surprisingly good at masking his real emotions. Thayet has an advantage that most people don't, but she still has to pay close attention to truly read him.

"Nah. You know Dorian. You just gave him an excuse." Bull shifts in his seat, stretching out his left leg. “Last couple months have been nice. He’s neurotic, but he’s sweet. We’re still settling in.”

“Do you feel more pressured to make it work, now that you’re in a new city together, basically alone?” Thayet watches him, taking a thoughtful drag, satisfied when Bull quirks his mouth in genuine thought.

“No. Think Dorian does sometimes, though. But I’ve got people to go back to. Should be easier with you around now; couldn’t pry you two apart with the jaws of life.” His laughter is a low, easy rumble that she feels more in her chest than her ears.

"Are you happy, Bull?"

"Yeah, Boss."

" _Good._ "

The cramping is still there, unwelcome and rankling at the distraction. It rushes into the lull in the conversation, invasive enough that Thayet grunts in discomfort. She barely manages to set her cigarette, half gone and still trailing smoke, onto the lip of the ashtray.

Bull's hand on her shoulder is the grounding she needs. Thayet grips it hard, pressing her forehead against his arm. The shaking is settling into her chest, like her heart is trying to escape from the unwelcome shuddering.

"What do you need?"

"Just talk to me," she says. "This passes, just give me something to listen to. Like… uh---"

Bull readily cuts her off, adopting a calm, conversational tone when he says, "Chargers are opening a new office in Kirkwall. Krem's gonna leave Stitches in charge in Val Royeaux. He's flying out here in a couple weeks. His new place won't let him move in until the first, though, so he'll crash with us. I got a list of shit to do before then…"

He goes on like that, rambling off whatever stray detail comes to mind. About Krem. About the office. About the weather. It doesn't matter. Thayet concentrates on the sounds, not the words, squeezing her eyes shut and letting Bull's voice drown out the rest.


	2. *the honey whiskey’s kickin’

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW for explicit but emotional sex. Also to a lesser extent D/s, spanking, and voyeurism, but not from the main couple.

The first week in Kirkwall is… fine.

Bull and Dorian are as sturdy under her feet as hard earth. They’re kind, they’re supportive, and they’ve made it very clear that they don’t care when or if she gets a job. She has a pension coming in along with her trust fund stipend, hardly enough to make her rich but more than enough to cover living expenses.

They still won’t tell her what her part of rent is or what they spent on her room. On her third day home, Dorian cajoles her into downloading a money transfer app under the guise of sending her down the street for cigarettes and transfers her far too much. A few thousand too much, actually, and the ensuing argument is worse for how much both of them just need a smoke. Dorian had stubbornly refused to touch anything she’d sent him during the move.

The fight ends with Iron Bull mediating a terse negotiation: Dorian won’t even take rent if she shoves it down his throat, but he agrees to let her pay for groceries (sometimes) and utilities (always). They both leave feeling mildly insulted and don’t speak for the rest of the day.

Other than that, the days are a blur. Thayet is bored of being inside almost immediately. She joins a gym in walking distance, she looks up parks and kitschy tourist things to do. Bull takes a day off and the three of them do nothing but wander around the aquarium in Hightown. (Dorian complains about the inherently ridiculous nature of fish, talking almost constantly except when they stop for lunch. She worries that they might baby her to death in the long run, but it’s her first full week without speaking to _Thom_ even once and she appreciates the extra noise.)

She sends out resumes for jobs she doesn’t want, fights with her new health insurance, tries and fails to go to sleep at reasonable hours. The tight, exhausting tension of the past few months is absent, but there’s nothing left in its place.

Despite herself, she finds herself missing Blackwall more than she means to — and, worse, she misses the routine of coming home from work and walking into the inevitable fights with Thom. He’d been stir-crazy the entire time he’d been out on bail, grumpy and moody and bitter. He’d baited her when he wasn’t sulking, but she hadn’t exactly stopped herself from taking it. She’s as homesick of their stupid bickering as she is for their relationship as it had been.

She needs a distraction. And a better vibrator.

“I need to get laid.”

Thayet flops haphazardly onto the couch. From his reading spot in Bull’s massive armchair, Dorian clicks his tongue.

“You’re not my type, my darling. Try Bull.”

“Don’t make fun of me.” Thayet grabs one of the velvety throw pillows and launches it at him, missing by a wide margin. It only makes him laugh, pressing his book to his chest. It’s some thick, historical novel full of murder and intrigue. He’s been trying to convince her to read it, but she has too much restless energy to get into it. “You _have_ Bull. I’m so desperate I masturbated to the sound of the washer thumping against the wall yesterday.”

“Is _that_ what you were doing? Here I thought I was very nicely keeping it quiet for your nap.” Dorian marks his place in his book and sets it aside. “I’m glad you actually _want_ to sleep with someone else, though. That’s progress, is it not?”

“I _guess_. It’s not like Thom and I were monogamous. I could have gone out with anyone I wanted.”

“But you didn’t.”

Thayet cranes her neck so she can glare. Dorian just shrugs. He’s not _wrong_ ; she hadn’t been seriously seeing anyone else by the time Thom had been arrested, and the idea of dating around when he’d been home _all the time_ just hadn’t lined up. Dorian knows all this, of course, but he doesn’t have to rub it in.

“That’s not the point,” she says tersely. She sits up, resting on her hands. “The _point is_ , I’ve never gone this long without sex. And now that I’m not babysitting an overgrown would-be felon, I need an outlet, or I’m just going to fuck the next person who’s nice to me in the grocery store.”

Dorian rolls his eyes. “Maker, don’t do that. I won’t have random grocery people wandering around in here. I have a better idea. A surprise, if you will, that I’ve been saving for you.”

“Oh?” Thayet sits up properly now. A surprise from Dorian could be pretty much anything; they’re so close that what boundaries sit between them are fuzzy. She still gets excited about presents the way she did at Wintersend when she was six.

“Do you remember Vivienne?”

“Madame de Fer? Maker, yes.” Just her name sends a shiver down Thayet’s spine.

Madame de Fer had been the first professional Dominatrix Thayet had ever been to. She’d played around with kink before with her partners, it was an easy hole to fall into when she already wasn’t monogamous. But Vivienne had been the first person she’d ever paid for Domination.

Thayet had found her after her arm had healed. She’d been looking for some catharsis, some sense of self control, some way to connect with her body after such a significant change, and it had been a Domme or a hypnotist. (Thayet had been then — and was still, a little — something of a hippie in that respect.) Madame de Fer didn’t offer sexual services, but she did everything short of it, and for the correct, ridiculously large sum of money, would take on 24/7 submissives for brief stints.

Thayet had lived with her for a month. Between disciplinary beatings and mandatory affirmations, Vivienne had helped her acclimate to civilian life without having to rely on her parents. They’d become real friends afterward. People in Thayet’s orbit tended to meet each other eventually, and Vivienne and Dorian were no exception.

“Well,” says Dorian, distracting her from the memory. “I had lunch with her before we left Val Royeaux and she referred us to a sex club on the east side called The Inquisition.” He says it with a wistful reverence. The drama of the name appeals to him, and Thayet can’t disagree. “Membership and referral only. It’s like a party in Minrathous; it’s very decadent, very indulgent. Less blood magic, of course, but that only makes it better. It’s a sea of gorgeous, mostly naked people doing depraved things right out in public. It’s an experience.

“And they have private rooms, of course,” he adds. “Some that you can rent ahead of time. Bull and I go there about once a week.” He sounds too deliberately glib to actually be glib. Thayet might still be the only person he’s comfortable admitting that to aloud, at least outside of a club.

Thayet frowns after giving it a moment of thought. “Do you?”

Dorian shrugs apologetically. “Not since you’ve been home. We didn’t want you to feel…”

“Jealous?” Thayet makes a frustrated noise. “Now I definitely need to go just to make you stop acting like that. You can take the kid gloves off a little bit, Dorian.”

“I apologize if my first thought when you came home wasn’t taking you to an orgy.”

“I accept your apology.” 

He’s only half apologizing, and she’s only half sarcastic about accepting it.

If The Inquisition was a candy store, Thayet would be pressing her face flat against the glass. And drooling a little, maybe.

She knew she missed places like this, but actually waiting to get in puts a new bounce in her step. Dorian and Bull have to get her in long enough for her to hand over her phone and her ID, as well as share a digital copy of her last STD test. (Taken in the last few weeks, thank the fucking Maker, if she’d had to wait to get those results back before getting into this adult amusement park she would have been insufferable.)

The main bar area is just that. Dim and lit primarily by the glowing trails of neon lights, it’s like stepping into a place where time never passes. The music has a low, thumping baseline that’s felt more than heard, appealing to some primal sixth sense of space. There’s a dance floor rimmed in lights, a bar area tucked amidst a smattering of tables, and a buffet full of fruit and little h’or d'oeuvres, perfect finger foods for people taking a break from energetic activities in another room.

Their cover fee gets them a drink at the bar each. Dorian and Bull are too keyed up to wait, and Thayet sends them on, watching them disappear down a corridor. She wants to drink and people watch a little first.

She’s always liked crowds. She likes the thrum of energy, likes the feeling of being overwhelmed with people. In the right mood (in her current mood) she even likes the smell of sweat and must. It’s comparatively early in the evening, a little after ten, but they aren’t the first ones there. A trio of glittery twenty-somethings have taken mastery of the dance floor, getting dust on anyone who gets too close. A couple of women are huddled up together in a booth, feeding each other fruit. The bar is already host to a small crowd, and the steady line of people behind her promises a busy night.

There will inevitably be orgies in the back rooms that she can simply allow herself to be absorbed into, but there’s no reason to rush. The distance between herself and other people has felt impassible, a mile between her and her friends, a galaxy between her and strangers. It's tempting to jump directly into the deep, but there's a value in wading in, feeling the ocean creep up her legs as her feet sink into the sand.

The glittery dancers take her in almost immediately, submerging her in dust before the flood of bodies onto the dance floor threaten to drag her into the undertow. 

A tall, reedy elf with the broad shoulders of a model and the cropped blonde haircut of someone in a rush presses in close. She's one of the shiny ones, leaving dust on Thayet's skirt with her hips. She turns, and the elf’s hands are cradling her face, someone else’s weight is against her back, she kisses and tastes bright, sugary liquor. Her own hands reach out to touch, fingers dragging over warm bare skin, someone hard against her palm, someone else against her thigh. If it's drowning, she's breathing it in until her lungs are full to bursting. She's light-headed, too overwhelmed to feel anything but joy and hunger, craving salt. Only the threat of getting glitter in her teeth keeps her from licking it off of someone’s body.

It’s at the moment of freedom from the crowd that she lays eyes on him.

The thing about clubs like this, she knows, is that they don’t survive on shiny, energetic 20-somethings alone. She knows this one’s type the moment she sees him: unassuming, well-dressed without being showy. He looks serious. If she has to guess, she would put him in his forties, elves always look younger than they really are. Handsome, clean-shaven, mystery in the quirk of his mouth. Most white men look odd bald, she thinks, or it ages them, but the fine shape of his skull gives her the sudden urge to find the grooves of bone with her fingers while she pushes him between her legs.

He’s watching her, and for a moment she’s more aware of her own body than she has been in months. His gaze doesn’t waver even when he brings his drink to his lips. Whisky? It’s too cloudy to be straight whisky. 

He’s leaning against the bar. There’s enough space between him and the next person just for her. Thayet keeps her head up, turning her eyes away and concentrating on neon bar lights. 

She can feel him looking when she leans on the bar, stretching out her spine. He shifts out of the corner of her eye, sets his drink down on the sleek wood. It’s whisky, but she picks up the the sharpness of lemon and ginger, smoothed over with honey.

He waits, patiently, while she orders a silver bullet. Quiet. Expectant, curious, but not stoic. The attention skitters down her spine, warming her belly and mixing with the shot when she throws it back.

“So.” She glances over, her metal fingers tapping idly on the shot glass. She smiles when his attention flickers down to her hand, making a show of delicately fingering the rim. “Who are you here with?”

“The same person you’re here with.” His voice is soft without being quiet. He sounds Dalish, melodic, his long Es running longer. Up close, she can see the slick patterns of stylized leaves in his soft green vest, iridescent in the low lights. Dressed up, but not overdoing it.

Thayet’s smile broadens. “That’s a shame. You look like your taste in women is as good as mine.”

He quirks an eyebrow. “No comment about my taste in men as well?”

“Is that relevant right now?”

The once-over he gives her says that it very much is not. Thayet gently shifts her weight, hiding what would otherwise be a squirm of delight. She’s a visual person, hungry for the sight of another’s body, and she’s vain enough to favor lovers who share the proclivity. His gaze lingers on her hand, before dropping down over her chest and hips. He looks curious, the way a wolf looks curious while looking over a hill at a flock of sheep.

It’s been so fucking long since anyone has looked at her exactly like that. The rush between her legs presses her thighs together, and she wonders if he can smell her.

She waits until he speaks again, gently worrying her lip between her teeth. The silence runs long, but it only seems to be because he forgets to speak at all. He does eventually compose himself, returning his attention to her face.

“My name is Solas,” he says, as if reminding himself as well, “if there are to be introductions.”

“Thayet.”

“Thayet.” Solas repeats her name as if savoring it on his tongue. “What are you here for, Thayet?” Low, inquisitive, just a little academic. Like a new boss, or a university professor. Thayet checks another box off her list.

“Well. I wasn’t entirely sure, but now I think I’m here for you.” Thayet’s never believed in holding her cards too close to her chest. It’s harder to play them that way, as far as she’s concerned. “The question is what you’re doing here. I like you, and I’m very flexible. Euphemistically and otherwise.”

“I know very well what I’m here for,” he says, gently teasing in a way that makes her wish it came with his hand between her legs. “I’m curious to know your suspicions. You came to me, after all.”

It’s a test. It’s obviously a test. It should probably annoy her; he’s not so arrogant as to be obnoxious about it, but it’s a little slippery. It might put someone off who isn’t interested in chasing, or perhaps to test the waters of what people expect of him, letting him extract himself if he finds it offensive.

Thayet leans on the bar, giving his face a long, thoughtful look. He’s carefully neutral, he has a good listening face, but he could also just play an extraordinary hand of poker.

She’ll bite.

“All right. I think that… you like testing people.” When he makes a little face, she amends it to say, “Maybe ‘testing’ is the wrong word. I think you like poking at them to see what they’ll do. You like it more than taking the easy route, anyway.”

Thayet trails her fingers over his vest. The hint of the tag looks bright white and sharp. He isn’t wearing cologne, but he’s freshly shaved. The ice is nearly melted in his glass, more water than whiskey now. 

“You’re an attractive man,” she says. Not a question. “You aren’t in a rush, so you aren’t just here to fuck around with the first attractive person who comes near you. You probably would’ve finished that faster or ordered something smaller if you didn’t mean to wait and be picky. My guess is that you aren’t here for an orgy. Probably not even for group sex at all? Am I warm?”

Solas tips his head, mirroring her stance and leaning on the bar. “Keep going.”

“All right.” Thayet picks up his abandoned drink, swirls it to mix the water back in, and finishes it off. “You’re not wearing cologne.”

“Perhaps I have an allergy to it.”

“No you don’t,” she counters, and it startles a smile out of him. “I think you want to go home smelling like someone else, rather than the other way around. And you’re looking for someone who has a thing for authoritative men.” She tugs at his shirtsleeve, catching it between her first two fingers. “You’re not stupid or without style. This getup will attract two kinds of people. The question is which one you want to attract.”

“And what is it you think I want to attract…?” 

Thayet shakes her head. Instead of answering, she nudges him with her good elbow. “No. Your turn. I came here for a drink. You were staring first. Which type of person do you think I am, that I’d come over here for you?”

Solas is thoughtfully quiet at first. He finally touches her, his fingers brushing over her bare shoulder, pausing to watch her reaction. It’s only after she nods that he feels along the line of her shirt, tracing the connection between her shoulder blades.

A thread of tension winds around her stomach, slowly tightening when Solas runs his fingers over her spine. Getting attention is always easy, keeping it is even easier, but this is the part where men lean into her and tell her their assumptions, which box they’ve put her in and how hard they intend to lock her into it. Whether they see her as a ball-breaking Dominatrix or a “natural” submissive (whatever they mean by that), no ambiguity or nuance required. Even the men she meets less familiar with kink or who won’t use those exact words find a way to express it.

Andraste probably isn’t listening, but she’s praying for this one. She would hate for Solas to ruin it now, and she lacks the patience to debate someone.

(This had been so much easier with Blackwall. She’s not thinking about him tonight, _he doesn’t deserve it_ —-)

“I think,” he says, careful with his words, “that you like authority. The illusion of it, perhaps? But do you like submitting to it or dismantling it tonight, I wonder. —You certainly like to be looked at. You didn’t mean to linger at the bar, either. So you could leave quickly if I bored you? Or because you’re eager to take me into the back?”

Solas is so close she can feel his breath on her cheek. They’re about the same height. He teases the idea of brushing his hand down her back before dropping his touch altogether, tucking his hands behind his back instead. Their only contact is the idea of a kiss. She doesn’t dare move.

“What was your immediate thought when you stepped out of the crowd and saw me?” His voice is so soft. It expects an answer, but doesn’t pull her to any specific one.

Thayet swallows hard. “I wanted you to eat me out,” she says, her voice equally low.

She feels him smile. “What else?”

She bites back her own smile. Her feet are on the very edge of the slippery slope, and this exact place — moments before getting something she’s ached for — always makes her grin too much in mood-breaking excitement.

“I want you to spank me.” She fails at keeping the smile off of her mouth, but she manages to make it crooked, hopefully charming. 

“A- _ha_. There we are.” 

Without pulling back, Solas offers his hand, holding it in her eyeline so she doesn’t have to move. When she slides her own hand into his touch (Maker, he has beautiful hands, long and warm), he gives her a gentle, reassuring squeeze. It seems as much for him as for her; she feels the energy of him, the familiar and involuntary hum of magic that comes with excitement. Other people might not know to feel for it, but Thayet does.

Solas nuzzles her, dodging her attempt to turn her head and kiss by nuzzling her ear. “We’re both lucky tonight. We should speak in private, don’t you think?”

Solas has been here before, so he takes the lead. Thayet slips her fingers through his so they aren’t separated.

The back rooms are a series of winding hallways and hidden staircases, connecting a seemingly mismatched series of rooms. Some are tiny, no more than a closet big enough for two people. Others are large enough for a crowd, many of them hosting a smattering of couples and trios who want to watch strangers while fucking their own. 

At one point, they pass through a room with a stage. There are comfortable chairs full of onlookers, a few stripper poles for flavor, but the real centerpiece is the bondage bench on stage and the girl on it, bent over and strapped in. She squirms and moans while another woman works a truly intimidating dildo into her cunt.

Thayet pauses without meaning to, mesmerized by the angry red marks on the girl’s backside. She’s been beaten with something that leaves distinctive lines. A whip, maybe? A cane? —-The woman reaches down for something and brings up a riding crop, tapping between the girl’s legs when the dildo is halfway inside of her. The memory of the biting sharpness of a crop fills Thayet’s senses, a sense recollection that makes her thighs ache and her head swim.

“That’s what you like, is it?” Solas’s voice snaps her out of the memory by dropping a shudder down of her shoulders, his lips against her ear. “Who would you rather be…?” Other than his hand on hers, he maintains a stubborn distance. He doesn’t even let his body brush over hers by accident.

“The girl on the bench,” she breathes. “Usually.” Thayet jumps when the woman strikes the back of the girl’s thigh, the high-pitched squeal sending a voyeuristic warmth into her stomach. 

“I’ll take note.” She feels him smile against her ear just before he kisses it. “You would be so beautiful that way. Pinned down, dripping wet, squealing for my cock while you endured such punishment.” Solas sighs, letting out his breath as if she’s wrapped a hand around him. “I might even let you suck it first.”

Thayet turns for an impulsive kiss. Solas casually dodges the gesture, much to her irritation. Instead, he brings her hand to his mouth to kiss her fingers.

“You’re trouble,” Thayet says, biting at her cheek to interrupt her smile. “ _Let me_ suck it. You’d be so lucky. Let’s keep moving.”

They duck out of the room as the girl on the bench has a harsh, screaming orgasm, to the reception of oddly subdued golf claps from the audience.

They find the first unoccupied, private room and lock themselves inside. Thoughts of going slow evaporate as soon as they’re alone.

Solas still tastes like honey. She realizes, as his tongue slips into her mouth, that his restraint from earlier was just self preservation. They’re both manic, fumbling, the kiss an unspoken permission. If he’d kissed her any earlier — hell, if he’d just stood a little too close — they would have been kicked out for trying to fuck on the bar. 

There’s something missing in Solas. Thayet feels it somewhere in her chest, in a piece of her that mimics it. Gone are the light, teasing touches; he touches her now as if he’s anchoring her to the ground, finding the neglected parts of her with his fingers and holding onto them so tight that the ache reminds her that they exist. If she was made of smoke, he would still find a way to hold it in his hands, keep it from drifting.

Thayet will look back on this in the morning and not remember how they got from the door to the bed. She won’t remember who opened the condom, who took off which piece of clothing, whose hand went between whose legs first.

But she’ll remember being on top of him when she comes into his hand, squeezing so tight around his cock that she can feel every little twitch inside of her. The intimacy of it is overwhelming. _I would take up space for you_ , it says. _I would make my home here_.

Her brain is full of static and hunger when Solas pushes her onto her back. His heart thumps against her own chest when he comes, her hands on his back digging red lines into his skin. His weight makes her fantasize about a life lived between his ribs, behind his lungs, safe and dark and quiet.

It takes the both of them a solid minute to realize she’s upset.


	3. *dear fellow traveler

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW for explicit sex (obviously), a brief (pre-sex) panic attack, D/s dynamic, spanking, fingering, face-fucking, cunnilingus, and subspace.

Thayet takes long, ragged breaths, her limbs too heavy to move, even to cover her face.

When Solas realizes it, he’s quick to climb off of her, and the sudden release of pressure from his weight moving off makes her groan. She blindly gropes to drag him back in.

As a compromise, Solas wraps his arms back around her, cuddling up against her side. “Did I hurt you…?” He cradles her cheek, caressing her face with his thumb. “Speak to me. Please.”

Thayet shakes her head, rubbing at her eyes. Solas’s touch is feather-light as if she’s made of paper, slipping underneath her shaking hands and holding her until she calms.

“You didn’t hurt me,” she says finally. Even her vocal chords are numb. “I am so sorry. I didn’t think…” She swallows hard. “I didn’t think I would have that reaction. I’m sorry. You’re lovely.”

He has that same look on his face from before, soft and carefully neutral, listening without judgment. His vest is lost somewhere, his button-down open. Such a strange intimacy, the sight of his bare chest framed by his shirt. He’s lean, not as soft as she expected, and there’s a freckle — one single freckle — under the left side of his collarbone.

She traces her metal fingers over his jaw, trailing over the sharp line from his ear to his chin. Solas leans into the touch, kisses her fingers, presses his mouth to her palm.

“Tell me what I did,” he reiterates, nuzzling her hand and letting her cradle his cheek.

“Nothing. I…” 

Thayet leans in, pressing a careful kiss to his mouth, ready to pull away. She sighs in relief when he returns it. The kiss lingers, until the anxiety seeps out of Solas’s body and the urge to weep subsides. Even when it breaks, her mouth stays close to his, kissing just his upper lip, pressing another to his chin.

“I’m sorry,” she says again. Thom isn’t supposed to be on her mind, but she’s still cloudy from anxiety and orgasm. Solas hasn’t pulled away, hovering as if he’s waiting to take her words and swallow them himself, taking them where they can’t make her miserable. “You’re the first person I’ve slept with since I broke up with my boyfriend. It’s been a few months, I meant to just come here and forget, but I… maybe I just needed to get that out. I didn’t mean to put it on someone else.”

“Grief is complicated. It does not care what time you give it,” he says gently. “It takes what it needs, and no less. I only wish I had known so I could take better care.”

"That's very sweet." Thayet swallows down the rising heat of tears. It feels as if she cries constantly now, and the frequent impulse rattles her.

Solas squeezes the back of her neck before he sits up. "I'll get you something to drink."

While he climbs off the bed, Thayet sits up and finally gets a look around. It's on the smaller side as rooms seem to go here, meant for three people at most. The bed is sizable enough, comfortable, with iron posts and a tiered headboard perfect for wrapping rope or cuffs around. There's a wide, comfortable looking chaise, and its counterpoint across the room is a black, padded sawhorse.

The counter built along the wall is shiny wood and mostly empty, except for what amounts to a little supply station nearest the door: a multi tiered storage unit holding a rainbow of condoms, a few different lubricants, baby wipes, towels, a couple pairs of medical scissors. Cleverly built into a cabinet is compact fridge full of water and sports drinks. There must be other things in the cabinets, too, but Solas just brings her a bottle of water when he comes back.

They’ve really done a poor job of undressing, haven’t they? Solas’s shoes and pants are missing, but he still has his socks on. Thayet hasn’t lost anything but her underwear and her shirt. After a drink, she finally takes off her boots and kicks them to the floor.

The silence gets to her only a minute after it starts. Coming down from the high of orgasm and the tension of a panic attack, she’s hollowed out, empty, leaving room for the anxiety to slip back in. The sweat on her skin is drying and tacky. Lust has drained away, leaving only hunger behind to roll around in her quiet thoughts.

Solas touches her shoulder, tugging her back before she has the chance to get lost in the quiet.

“I didn’t mean—-,” she starts.

“Don’t apologize to me again.” The cut-off is kind but firm. A few seconds pass between them, threatening to become another slippery slope of quiet, before Solas adds, “This isn’t easy for me, either.”

“No…?” Thayet resettles to sit more comfortably, wrapping her arms around her legs, water bottle closed and held with two fingers under the cap. She rests her chin on her knee. She feels raw, even the soft fabric of her skirt against her chin is irritating, and she raises her head only long enough to let the skirt fall further down her thighs to get it away from her face.

Solas sits cross-legged, close without touching her, save for the hand that rests near her hip. Only the tips of his fingers brush over her skirt. “I don’t come here often. I didn’t start coming until after my last relationship ended…” He takes in a steeling breath. “Uncomfortably.”

“Why come here, then? Why not just date?”

“I’m not ready,” he says simply. “I may never be. But I like this place. I like the atmosphere, the drama, the smell of sex and intrigue. Everyone here has something that drove them into a den of sexual deviance. I like watching them for a moment and imagining what must have done it.” 

“And you’re too good for that deviance yourself, I take it?” she asks, nudging him with her elbow.

“Oh, not at all.” He shrugs a little. “I’m rarely comfortable with submission, but I enjoy Dominance, even with relative strangers. I suppose especially with them.” His touch ghosts up over her spine, the tips of his fingers touching the blunted points of her vertebrae. “Though I might have subbed for you if you had been looking for it. It’s difficult to say otherwise to…” He finally runs out of words, chuckling at himself. “Mm. You’re overwhelming.”

Thayet’s smile is slow and delighted, cheek resting on her knee while she watches him talk. She could listen to him for hours, she realizes. He could read from a dictionary and make it sound like philosophy. The cadence of his words is soft, flowing with the ease and conviction of the tide taking over a beach, and the hum of her aching is quieted.

“But you’d rather top.”

“Yes, I would.”

“Why?”

Solas’s fingers find the nap of her neck and linger over her hairline. “Because I like the idea of a person leaving me more settled and honest than when they came. There’s an envious beauty in watching someone submit so completely as to become more of themselves.”

Thayet fidgets in place, a surge of warmth in her belly. “Very charming.”

His hand pauses. “Was that too much?”

“ _No._ But if you’re trying to convince me to fuck you again before I leave, you’re making a lot of progress.” She leans more into his touch until she’s tucked under his arm, letting her weight rest against his side. “Sweet-talker.”

“Perhaps I’m simply trying to impress you by sounding more sensitive than I am,” he says, tightening his grip around her and giving her arm a squeeze. “I’m making it sound as if it’s not sexual. It is. Emphatically so. —-I’m talking far too much about myself.” Solas looks away from her, his mouth crooked with a self-deprecating laugh. “Why come here? If it’s been a months, this seems to be the deep end, is it not?”

Thayet takes another drink before capping the bottle of water and tossing it aside. It rolls to the edge of the bed, threatens to roll right off. “I’m not very good at moderation,” she says plainly. “I went to clubs like this all the time before things got… weird.”

“Weird?”

“He… ugh.” Thayet rolls her eyes. “He got arrested for some stupid shit he was doing before we were together. I bailed him out — which was dumb of me, I know — and we lived together in perfect misery until I moved out a week ago. We were not fucking, as you can probably tell.”

“You did mention that,” Solas says, carefully bland.

Thayet clears her throat. “Anyway. I’ve always been into kink in one way or another. Before… everything—-” She gestures, waving away all mention of _arrests_. “---he and I had a pretty consistent D/s dynamic. But we weren't monogamous, and even with other people I usually subbed. It’s cathartic.”

She squirms closer, wrapping her arm around his waist and resting her metal fingers tucked into the waist of his boxers. She’s rewarded with a little shudder before she feels him relax again. “I’m fairly high strung, to be true about it. Subspace — and some _pain_ —- wipes that slate clean, blocks out the noise. I wanted something familiar.”

Solas feels his way over her shoulder and her neck, until his long, elegant fingers are working into her hair. His fingertips drag wonderfully over her scalp, using her braids to pin his hand close. “And we know you like spanking.” An edge is creeping back into his voice that makes her teeth ache. “I’d like to give you some of what you want before we leave tonight. I’d like to take some of what I want. Tell me not to, now, and I will let go and we can simply keep each other company instead.”

He tugs at her hair, and the sharpness in her scalp straightens out her spine. She’s soft now, she has a mind that can lead her body in either direction, submission or isolation. She could board herself up again, settle for conversation, go home with a hum in the back of her brain and the hollow emptiness left untreated in her chest.

He would let her go. She would hate him for it.

“I use traffic lights,” she says softly, meeting his eyes without challenging his grip to turn her head. “Red, yellow, green.”

“And now?”

“Green.”

His hands drag over her breasts once her bra is discarded, harsh and squeezing before he moves down the rest of her body. Thayet does as she’s told, standing still in the center of the room while Solas strips away the rest of her clothes. He’s quiet, borderline impersonal, the harshness of his touch standing in for his voice.

Solas drags her to the sawhorse by her hair, bracing his free hand on her hip while he bends her over. He keeps his grip on her until she’s settled, the black leather cushioning her hands and knees, the bench wide enough for her to settle on and forcing her thighs wide.

(Can he smell her? He must be able to. Her pussy is _wet_ , her inner thighs slick and, now, cold with their sudden exposure.)

For a moment the room is silent except for her breathing, lightly panting in anticipation. Solas squeezes her ass with both hands, in a way that suggests he’s facing away from her, seeing her only from the hips down. He spreads her cheeks, making a small _hmm_ until he takes one hand from her, moving it between her legs instead. He has that confident touch again, slipping his middle fingers past her labia and drawing a line on her skin from her clit to her entrance, sinking inside of her in one easy movement until his knuckles press at her hole.

Thayet gasps, her head involuntarily raising. Solas uses his free hand to push her back down, his thumb against her cheek when he presses her face firmly to the leather and then lets go.

“Feel how soft you are. You couldn’t wait to crawl up onto my cock, could you?” He presses _up_ , against the floor of her cunt, forcing the muscles to strain and ache. 

She swallows hard. “No.”

He uses his free hand to give her a quick smack on her ass, more noise than pain. A warning shot. Her cunt tightens around his fingers. “No, _sir_.”

“No, _sir_ ,” she echoes. “No, sir, I couldn’t wait.” She bites down hard on her lower lip. It’s too early, smiling might unravel the mood before it sets in.

“Mm. I didn’t think so.” Another smack, to the other cheek this time. “Did I give you permission to touch me…?” And another, harder this time, making her jump.

“No, sir. I’m sorry.”

And another. “What did I say about apologizing?” And _another_ , his strikes enough to shock but not enough to hurt. Not yet.

“Not to apologize, sir.”

Soothing her ass with a gentle touch, Solas uses the hand inside of her to fuck her, firm and slow. Her pussy makes soft, lewd noises, making a mess of him to the wrist. “I did. No apologies. You’ll answer my questions when I ask them. You will touch only when I instruct you to. Now.” He pulls his hand out of her, dragging his touch over her ass, even briefly teasing her asshole with his wet fingers. He wipes her own arousal off on her hip. “I don’t trust you not to be trouble. When I’m finished, you won’t be. It will hurt, but you will endure. Do you understand?”

Thayet drags in a breath, forces herself to let it out slowly. Her fingers dig into the edge of the handholds. The pain from being smacked is already fading, gone before it can do its job, the drop-off already winding frustration around in her belly like knotted string.

“I understand, sir.” 

The next time he hits her, it’s _harsh_. She feels it as much as she hears it, and she cries out, an immediate panic response flooding through her nervous system. He hits her again before she has time to react, and again, switching sides every time, setting a rhythm. The pain is a pulse that rattles her bones. Maker, it’s been so long since the hurting has _helped_ , since it’s been her choice, Solas’s hand is steady and heavy and it drowns everything else out. She can’t hear his voice anymore, or her own thoughts, or her own _breathing_ , not when her body is spending its energy on the stinging from her hips to her thighs.

She’s probably loud. Thayet’s never been very quiet unless it’s part of a game, and Solas hadn’t told her to keep quiet before he started. The feeling of noise is in her throat but never reaches her ears. She feels herself sweat as if it’s on someone else’s skin.

Thayet doesn’t so much sink into subspace as fall, ungracefully, into the depths of it. It used to take more than a harsh spanking to get her all the way there, though it never stopped giving her a bit of a high. The pain stops being pain, turns into a hum on her skin, a comforting sort of numbness. She’s unaware of it when Solas stops spanking her, and she’s vaguely aware of his hands trailing up over her spine. She’s too relaxed to shudder.

“--- _Thayet_.” Solas crouches in front of the sawhorse, guiding her into eye contact with a hand on her chin. His thumb swipes over her mouth, slipping briefly over her tongue. He’s hard to read, serious but calm. “Red or green? —-I won’t continue unless you answer me.” He slips his thumb back out of her mouth and cradles her cheek.

The answer comes without hesitation, though it first has to push through her cloudy mind. “Green. You’re okay.”

He presses a quick, gentle kiss to her mouth, caressing her cheek.

It’s his last moment of gentleness before he stands. The sawhorse puts her level with his hips. His boxer briefs are plain black, one of the buttons barely hanging on. The outline of his erection is begging her to touch, but the order of _you will touch only when I instruct you_ to echoes around the walls of her head. She idly licks her lips (have they gone dry? She can’t tell), mesmerized by the shape of it, hungry in a better way. They’d fucked so quickly last time she hadn’t known the shape of him except for the way he filled her cunt.

“Good girl. You won’t be trouble now, will you?” 

“No, sir.”

“I have some concerns about what you said earlier.” Solas cradles her chin in one hand, traces her lips with the other. “That I would be _lucky_ if you sucked my cock. As if you would have a choice if you were being _good_.”

Thayet leans into his touch, brushing a kiss over his fingers. “I want to suck your cock, sir.”

“Better.”

He pushes two fingers into her mouth, pushing them firmly over her tongue and forcing her jaw open. He tastes like cunt, rubbing her own pussy onto her tongue and encouraging her to swallow it, open-mouthed and moaning. “Good girls swallow come when it’s offered. Are you a good girl?”

Thayet whimpers and tries to nod, salivating around his fingers. He slides them back, adds another, stuffing her mouth and encouraging her to stick out her tongue. The new ache in her jaw puts another rush of heat between her thighs.

“How good…?” Solas experimentally slides in further, his long, beautiful fingers testing her throat. He waits for her reaction, still while Thayet’s instincts kick in, her nostrils flaring and letting the intrusion stay for long, light-headed seconds until she can’t stop herself from gagging.

He releases her, wiping her own saliva on her cheek while she coughs. “Someone’s used that throat before, haven’t they? Leave your tongue out.”

He finally ( _finally_ ) takes out his cock. It’s long, just thick enough that she could fit her fingers around it, smooth and hard as a rock, except for one prominent vein that runs along the underside. Thayet whimpers when he rubs the velvety head over her tongue, the salty precome activating some primal thing in the back of her brain.

The _groan_ he lets out when he sinks fully into her mouth seems to come right from his belly. Thayet echoes it without thinking, vibrating around him. Her jaw is slack, eagerly presented for fucking. With his hand firm and steadying on the back of her head, all she can do is flick her tongue as he thrusts in and out. She’s pleasantly overwhelmed, by his grip, by his shadow looming over her, her vision full of nothing but his pelvis and the vulnerable skin of his belly, his hips.

When he seems sure that she’s comfortably being fucked, Solas rolls his hips until the head of his cock pushes at her throat. It flutters around him, squeezing hard around him. Thayet manages to swallow once before she gags.

Solas immediately pulls back. His cock is wet, leaving her face sloppy when he takes it from her mouth. Holding the base, he smacks her cheek with the head, quick and disciplinary. “You’ll need to do better than that. Breathe in and swallow me again, there’s a good girl…”

He waits for her to breathe before stuffing his cock back inside, this time immediately invading her throat. Thayet holds it, squirming on the sawhorse for a few blissful, mind-numbing moments of breathlessness. She gropes for his thigh with her good hand, nails scratching over his boxer briefs, and he releases her to breathe. 

Once she catches her breathe, letting herself swallow with her mouth shut, she opens up again with a shapeless noise. Solas keeps his hands on the back of her head and the base of his cock while he fucks her mouth, using her tongue, pressing into her throat until she’s flying, releasing her when she grips his thigh, rinse, repeat. Thayet loses track of time, languishing in a mindset where nothing matters except _this_ —-

Solas tightens his hand on her hair and pulls halfway out of her mouth before he comes, filling her mouth. His cock pulses on her tongue (and she loves that, she loves the way it looks and feels, it makes her _moan_ ), his hand making up for the part of him that isn’t inside of something warm and welcoming. Thayet is vaguely aware of the mess, come dripping down her chin, swallowing with his twitching, beautiful cock pressing down and using her.

Her jaw aches when he finally pulls out, leaving her to pant and finally bow her head. She’s alone — for a minute or a year, she couldn’t actually say — until he returns, again crouched in front of her.

He murmurs something while he cradles her cheek. She thinks at first that she’s just too far gone to understand Trade. His soft touches are back, lovingly wiping her face clean with a cool, damp wipe. It takes far too long for her to realize he’s speaking an entirely different language, the slick Elvhen sound mixing with the radio static in her mind as if one is made of the other.

“You’ve done well,” he says softly, kissing her hair. “I’m going to move you. Are you going to let me?”

Thayet nods, though perhaps she hasn’t done so at all. Her heartbeat has taken over her body, and she feels as if she’s rocking along with it.

“I need you to say ‘yes’.”

She swallows hard, groping for her own voice and dragging it to the surface. “Yes, sir.”

Solas guides her to sit up, her sweat making her bare skin stick to the leather as it peels away. Her knees go out from underneath her the moment she tries to rest weight on them. He’s quick to pick her up, his arm sweeping under her knees. In the moment she’s aloft, the floating sensation of subspace feels like actual flight. A strange giggle escapes her mouth. She couldn’t have swallowed it if she tried.

The bed feels infinitely softer now, sheets cold against her aching backside. Her arms fall where they will, carelessly splayed, her legs following the direction of Solas’s hands as he guides them apart. He says something else in Elvhen before burying his mouth against her in earnest.

An hour ago, she would have made the effort to sit up and watch him, to catch glimpses of his tongue on her pussy, his fingers holding her open. She’d started the night so badly wanting to see Solas’s head bobbing between her thighs and the look on his face when she came on his tongue.

Now, she can barely see the ceiling, her eyes blissfully unfocused. His fingers slide into her, filling her until her soft walls are stretched tight.

It’s quieter this time when she comes. He stays there through every wave, until her soft whimpers turn into something more pained. Pressing something that sounds like an apology against her belly, he carefully pulls his hand away, her cunt too sensitive to let him go without a violent twitch.

When his weight is gone from the bed, Thayet rolls onto her front. Solas returns again, laying beside her lengthwise. His hand finds her ass again, this time slicked with lotion to soothe her aches. 

He nuzzles her forehead, a gesture that she returns. He has such a handsome face, angular, a little dimple in his chin, a dusting of freckles over his nose. She wonders what color his hair would be if he had any.

Thayet catches hold of his shirt with the clumsy fingers of her metal hand, holding him still to press a kiss to his mouth. “Thank you for this,” she murmurs, her words soft and messy.

“It was my pleasure.”

They lay there for a long time. It’s the first tolerable silence she’s had in months. Solas rubs her back and her thighs, takes special care with the back of her knees, makes sure that she stretches her arms.

When it’s finally time to leave, Thayet is comfortably back in the real world, alert and hydrated and relaxed. The club outside their door is as alive as ever — moreso, perhaps, for the later hour. Solas offers to take her home, and when she explains that she’s there with friends, he offers instead to stay with her until they emerge from the back rooms.

He sees her to the door when it’s time. Leaves when she does. _There’s no point in staying without you_ , he says, shrugging.

Thayet gives him her number before they part ways, and she lingers on the sidewalk, watching until he turns a corner and disappears.


	4. *love to get done

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW for explicit (non-kinky) sex and fingering, references to spanking, gagging, bruising, and subspace. 
> 
> As of the end of the coffee shop scene, this fic has completely departed from Loving is Fine and gone off in its own direction, so here’s where I decided to post the rewrite. Thanks for everyone who stayed with me from the other fic! Y’all are fantastic for being so patient.
> 
> Next chapter comes when it comes, but hopefully soon! It’s already started. I predict that the contract itself will come up in chapter 5 and the official negotiations will be in 6.

_Hello. We met last night at Inquisition. It was refreshing to be so honest with a stranger, but I would like us to be less than strangers, if you would. I'm afraid I can't talk much today, as I've put off work that needs to be done for tomorrow and slept in far too late. I would like to buy you lunch. Tomorrow? I'll be working all day, unfortunately, but I have a couple of free hours starting at 1pm. At the Gull and Lantern, perhaps? It's a little old fashioned, but I go there often. I think you would enjoy it._

_Let me know._

_Solas_

"Lunch isn't exactly a date, is it?"

Thayet looks to Dorian for the answer. He's sunken down low in the bathtub, a warm washcloth over his eyes and a cushion under his neck. He might be asleep, lulled by the steam, but he makes a low rumbling noise.

"Lunch is catching up with a high school friend you want an excuse to run away from. Lunch is a _job interview_ ," he says, gesturing and flicking bubbly bath water at her. "And frankly I think he's undervaluing your talents."

" _We_ have lunch all the time, Dorian."

"Yes, my lovely friend, but you don't deep throat me first."

Thayet bites back a laugh, pressing her forehead to her knee to hide it. 

It's a lazy Sunday for the both of them. Dorian had been barely capable of speech when they'd returned home the night before, let alone cognizant enough to hear how Thayet's night had gone. They’d woken up long after Bull had already gone to work, equally sore and relaxed.

Dorian’s bathrobe is nestled snugly under Thayet’s as they hang on the bathroom door, purple over black. The room is big enough for Bull, so there’s more than enough room for a couple of humans. Thayet has a pile of her skin care products on the counter, leaving a little free space for her phone on the white linoleum. She has her foot propped up on a step stool, sitting on the closed toilet to shave her legs, washing the barely-there hairs off in the sink. 

Solas’s text takes up the screen and then some, disappearing under the edge. It’s charming, the idea of a man who signs his text messages. 

“Bold of you to assume I’m still good enough at giving head to warrant dinner,” she says dryly, shifting to shave the underside of her thigh. Dorian rarely speaks about sex in detail with anyone but her (save for Bull himself, of course). These talks always feel like _getting away with something_ in the best way.

“I’ve met _all_ your recent partners, remember. Nothing but quality oral sex would subdue some of those people.”

Thayet snorts. “Didn’t work on Blackwall, did it?”

Dorian’s brow furrows so dramatically that it crinkles the washcloth. “Oh, yes, what a failing on your part that you can’t fix literally everyone you come across.”

An awkward little silence sits between them, interrupted by the gentle swish of the bathwater. Dorian is impassive, and Thayet is grateful that he can’t see the self conscious way her lips press into a line.

Eventually, she clears her throat. “So, how are you feeling about tomorrow? Ready for your new job?”

Dorian _groans_ , sinking down another inch. “They already dislike me. That’s to be expected; brilliance and beauty together often make people jealous.”

“Uh huh.” Thayet runs her hand over her leg before switching to shave the other. “How do you know they already hate you, dearheart?”

“I can _tell_. A mage from Tevinter, writing my doctoral thesis on time travel? I suppose if I was some quaint, backwater southerner, I would hate me, too.” Dorian gestures flippantly, flicking bubbles onto the wall. “Say what you will about Tevinter, but they’ve never dismissed me on the basis of my studies.”

“No, but…” She lets out a breath, pausing for a moment to watch him. “Is this anxiety talking or did something say something to your face?”

“I’m hardly anxious,” he says, his voice pitching up. “One of the tenured professors _may_ have implied that I’m an arrogant Tevinter dandy biting off more than I can chew and doomed to fail in embarrassment and obscurity.”

Thayet winces. “Surely he didn’t say that _exactly_.”

Dorian sighs heavily, kicking at bubbles with his toes. “It was close enough,” he replies. “I’m trying not to put much stock in it. His papers were part of the reason I chose this University; he’s truly brilliant, he’s the first — and best — modern authority on fadewalking and rift magic. Before he insulted me to my face, I would have called him a visionary.”

“Not so much anymore?”

“Oh, now he’s dead to me. May his descendents carry his shame through generations for ignoring my genius.”

Thayet laughs, hiding it behind the back of her hand. “You’ll be _fine_ , I promise.”

“I’ll hold you personally responsible if I’m forced to challenge him to a wizard duel. _Ugh_. —-Anyway, forget about him, are you going on this horribly trite lunch date?”

“It’s not a _date_ ,” Thayet insists (though for herself or for Dorian, it’s hard to tell). “It’s just food. In the middle of the day.”

Dorian purses his lips. “Mm-hm.”

“Completely non-romantic.”

“Go on.”

“Though I might suck his dick again.”

“ _Maker_ , you’re crass.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere.”

It’s been over a year since the last time she saw someone new.

Not that this is a date. It isn’t a _date_. Thayet and Solas had both made their feelings clear about that on Saturday. (Had they? They definitely had, she remembers it. Mostly.) It’s just lunch. With a new friend.

That she wants to fuck again.

Maker, she’s so out of practice. Casually seeing people had been easy just a year ago. There had always been the challenges of an open relationship, of course, but Blackwall had always been rock solid. She hasn’t been without the consistent comfort of a primary relationship in _years_ , and now the prospect of seeing someone know — even it’s just sex — feels foreign. At least when things hadn’t worked out in the past, she could go to home to Blackwall after a bad date or a breakup for a pick me up.

Monday morning sees her left more alone than she’s comfortable with. The high from Saturday night has well and truly worn off, and with Bull and Dorian both at work, the apartment is completely empty for the first time. It affords her the privacy to just wander around and moan with insecurity (though, honestly, she would probably do that while they were home anyway), but eventually she has to stop and get dressed.

She’s barely done her makeup all week. She’d been doing it every day without fail while Thom was stuck at home, almost entirely out of spite. After kicking him out of the bedroom, Thayet had been careful not to let him see her anything but perfectly made up. Though it had been an artful and satisfying sort of drama, it had been exhausting hiding in her bedroom until she had concealed and straightened every little flaw in her appearance. Thom no longer deserved to see her vulnerability, but her natural inclination toward a soft and bleeding heart made it that much harder to keep those walls up every day.

But Happy Makeup, she notes, takes less energy than Spite Makeup. She goes heavier today than she had Saturday (less expectation of sweating it all off), and she’s casual with her clothes. It’s just lunch, after all, so she throws on a red sundress and flat espadrilles. It’s still summer-warm outside, and in Kirkwall that means bare legs and updos. After years living south of the Free Marches, she delights in the heat and humidity. Her tan is already coming back, thank the Maker.

The Gull and Lantern turns out to be a comfortable walk away from Kirkwall University. Dorian’s sent photos, but they don’t do the area justice. The University is just south of the Garden, in a part of Hightown where the Viscount’s Keep is visible from any street corner. The sleek stone buildings are punctuated with high glass windows that reflect as clearly as mirrors in good weather. The cafe itself is all red brick and high ceilings, a little too old fashioned and a little too far away from campus to interest students. 

She almost doesn’t recognize him at first. The context is so different, she doesn’t realize until she sees Solas that she’s looking for the same image as before, open shirt and moody club lighting casting a neon pall on his skin.

Instead, the elven man waiting for her outside the Gull and Lantern is achingly mundane. His shoes are old and worn. His earthy green cardigan has pens tucked into the pocket. There’s a cord hanging around his neck, double-looped, the end of it disappearing underneath his soft, off-white shirt. He looks like someone with a preferred armchair at the library, favorite authors he prescribes to his friends like medicine, this one for melancholy, that one for inspiration.

He smiles when he sees her and a warmth blooms in her chest.

“There you are. You came.” He sounds surprised, relieved. It seems for a moment that he’ll pull her in, or touch her, but he just tucks his hands into his pockets.

“Of course I did. Did you think I wouldn’t?” Thayet motions to the door and encourages him to lead her inside. 

“I suppose it was a silly thought.”

It’s busy, a late lunch rush, too noisy in line to really talk. The girl behind the counter recognizes Solas enough that she doesn’t even ask him what he wants. Solas is polite, tips well, gently brushes Thayet’s hand aside when she tries to pay for her own food. He really does have beautiful hands, she can say that more objectively now that she's fully sober, masculine but elegant.

(Letting him pay doesn’t make this a date, does it? No. No, of course not, she pays for Dorian’s lunch all the time.) 

It's when they find a table in a corner — a little shady, too far from the windows or the bathroom to be in high demand —- that they can finally settle and _talk_.

Which they both try to do at the same time.

"Did you find this place easily---"

"So when you said---"

Solas cuts himself off, but Thayet politely gestures for him to continue. At least small talk won't be hard, with both of them so ready to speak. What a strange thing to be relieved about.

Thayet clears her throat and starts again. “So when you said _less than strangers_ , I have to admit that I’m not sure what that means. —-Not that I’m not glad you texted, I did give you my number, but I… I actually don’t know what impression I gave you, when I did that. Which I’m realizing just now, and feel very silly about.”

Jumping right in seems the only fair way to do this. If either of them get too comfortable — if _she_ gets too comfortable — she might trick herself into thinking she’s ready for more than she is. It takes him aback, his hands stilling around his mug. (He takes his coffee decaf, with so much French vanilla creamer it might have been easier for him to just drink out of the carafe, hold the java. She would be stunned if there was any coffee taste to it at all.)

"I…" Solas is quieter when he's nervous, she notes, it lives mostly in the furrow of his brow than the set of his mouth. "I had hoped we both wanted the same thing. If that's untrue, I apologize."

"I don't know if it's true or not. If I’ve led you on or given you the impression that this is a _date_ , I’m very sorry—-”

"We both made it very clear that we aren't ready to date. But it's undeniable that we had a con---" He cuts himself off with a _hmph_ before the word _connection_ can work its way out of his mouth. "Compatibility. Our desires are complementary. I had hoped we would do that again. More than once."

Thayet breathes an audible sigh of relief. “Then, we’re on the same page.” She watches his hands relax, rest on the table. He seems so much more comfortable with stillness than she is that she’s struck with a horrible envy. “Thank the Maker, because I would make for a _terrible_ girlfriend right now.”

“Ah. I see what this is.” Solas takes a drink, so cool that it puts a little bit of anxiety back into her stomach.

“...Oh?”

“You’re warning me not to fall in love with you.”

Thayet freezes until Solas grins. She lets out a short laugh and shakes her head. “You’re fucking with me.”

“Not at all,” he insists. “It would be best if neither of us fell in love with the other. I’d make for a terrible partner.”

“I can’t imagine that,” she says, shutting her mouth a second too late to keep the words from slipping out.

Oh, this was so stupid. Confessions are welling up in her throat, the sudden impulse to overshare clouding her judgment. There’s no good reason for it; Solas is, in the end, just a very attractive stranger, someone who can’t or won’t validate her even if she lays herself bare, flaws and all. She almost _wants_ to tell him all the petty, stupid things she’s done or thought in the last year just to see him squirm and find some classy way to reject her.

(Suddenly she understands Thom a little better, now that she thinks about it.)

Instead, she cuts him off just as he’s about to speak by blurting out, “I have trust issues.”

Solas blinks. The tips of his ears are pink, and the breath in his lungs sits high in his chest, his spine too straight. “My last girlfriend was half my age. And she left me. It was my fault.”

“I like to fix people.”

“I’m terribly impulsive,” he says, like a challenge.

“I’m spiteful,” she counters.

“I’m prideful.”

“Me, too!”

Solas cracks, hiding laughter behind his hand. It’s infectious, spreading to Thayet almost immediately. She slumps down in her seat, covering her face with her good hand and stifling the sound. 

“So we’re both like this,” she says. Her cheeks hurt. “If you don’t mind my asking, how old _are_ you? _Half your age_ could mean a lot of things.”

Solas clears his throat, shifting in his seat until he’s calm. The flush lingers in his cheeks, a little half-smirk lingering on his mouth. “I’m forty-six,” he admits. Shameless, despite his little confession. “I suppose she’s more than half now. She was twenty when we got together.”

“Ah. Well.” When he cocks his head, Thayet adds, “Not that age differences bother me. You’re actually a year younger than my ex. —-I’m thirty, before you ask. Not that any of that matters, since we’re—-”

“Not on a date,” he finishes.

“Exactly. We’re just new, friendly acquaintances with a mutual sexual interest.” Thayet _finally_ reaches for her drink, the plastic clicking pleasantly against her prosthetic fingers. “I’m sure we’ll run into each other at Inquisition again, yes? And now we know ahead of time that we’re interested.”

Solas rests back in his chair, taking up his mug. His light shirt presses against the outline of whatever is at the end of the cord around his neck, a surprisingly wide shape that looks like it could be a shoe, resting almost on his belly. “It’s a fortunate thing to know,” he says, deliberate and positive. “If we happen to see each other, then it can’t be helped.”

She nods. “It can’t be helped.”

“No, it cannot.”

.

“There’s no rush.”

“None at all.”

“I probably won’t even go back until next week, anyway.”

“Neither will I,” he agrees.

“We might not even fuck each other even if we’re both there,” Thayet says optimistically. “We’ve really been very dramatic about this.”

“Very,” Solas adds. 

“Horribly. We’re being very silly. We should talk about something else, like the weather,” she insists.

“It’s very pleasant outside today,” he says helpfully.

“It really is.”

The heavy base of club music is thumping against the wall as Thayet rests her head on Solas’s lap. She’s sensitive and raw between her legs. Her ass smarts from a satisfyingly sharp spanking. Her mouth still tastes like cotton from being stuffed with her panties. There’s a comforting hum in her brain, the sensation of the blanket against her skin heavier and softer than it should be. 

Solas smells like sweat and her perfume. His hand rubs gently over her arm, through the blanket he’s bundled her up in. The quiet is soft; she’s forgotten what easy silence is like. Solas is content to wait for her to be ready to speak again, having long since given her water and tended to her faint bruises before wrapping her up and letting her rest.

When words finally make it back into her mouth, she tightens her grip on the blanket and groans, “We did a bad job.”

“Hm?” Solas takes a sharp breath. He must have been dozing off. “Did we…? I don’t think so.”

Thayet shakes her head, just a little. “We weren’t supposed to come here until next week.” Her half-hearted protests are likewise half-muffled. 

Solas chuckles, squeezing her shoulder. “In that case, yes, we failed entirely.”

Thayet rubs her cheek on his thigh. It won't take much longer before her mind has woken back up. She misses the time of submitting so fully to a partner that the lovely haze could last for days. If she wasn't so relaxed, she would panic at the idea of leaving here and returning to normal so soon. She’s gently floating, skimming the surface of subspace, like wading in a pond when what she wants is to sink in the ocean.

Eventually, she sighs and reluctantly sits up, holding the blanket around her shoulders. Solas lets his hand hover until she settles again, automatically cradling her cheek. Thayet briefly nuzzles his hand.

“We should probably talk about this,” she says, humming contentedly when he squeezes the back of her neck. “We’re just going to keep finding excuses to be here. We’re… —-We’ll hurt each other if we aren’t careful.”

Solas’s mouth presses into a line. He glances away, his eyes soft. He’s like her, she notes, his emotions so close to the surface that even when he’s trying to hold them in, she can see the shape of them under his skin. He’s given her so few specific details that perhaps it is — she _knows_ it is — foolish to already feel so attached. If she came here one night and saw him with someone else, she would undoubtedly be jealous if she wasn’t invited along.

When he draws her back in to lean against his chest, Thayet easily fits under his arm, settling with her head under his chin. “You’re right, of course,” he finally replies. “I would like to keep seeing you. I would certainly like to do more than what we’ve been, but that requires more negotiation. More assurances for both of us.”

“I think we could be suited for each other. Potentially.” Thayet runs her touch over his chest, resting on his belly and watching her hand rise and fall with his breaths. “I miss having a consistent Dom, and I have the sense that you’d like something more than brief. Am I wrong?”

“Mm.” Even at his most relaxed, Solas seems incapable of true stillness, his fingers drifting over her shoulder. She has to wonder if he’s still even in his sleep. “The idea of you coming to me when I call, hungry and submissive, has overwhelmed my thoughts for days. I think of little else.”

She _smiles_ , lifting her head so she can press a lingering kiss to his mouth. “We should talk more when I’m fully awake, a little more rational,” she murmurs. “But I want to see you again. More than once. And I want more than just a spanking.” 

Solas kisses her back with a sigh, almost of relief. One of his hands finds its way under the blanket, gently squeezing her hip and earning a little groan, his palm against a light bruise. Thayet lets him guide her into his lap, straddling his thighs. He’s more muscular than she expected just looking at him; he’s picked her up a couple of times, lifting her with ease. He’s soft between her legs, but she feels his cock twitch against her, brushing over her sensitive cunt.

“Tell me what you do want, then.” Solas guides her back into another kiss, his free hand on the back of her neck.

“Mm. Mm-mm, not yet.” Thayet kisses again, guiding his mouth open and making a soft noise when his tongue slides past her lips. “When is the last time you had a sub for more than a couple of scenes…? Hm?”

“A year and a … half ago? Forgive me if I have trouble conjuring him up in my mind at the moment.” He squeezes her ass, punctuation at the end of his sentence.

“ _Him_?” Thayet smiles crookedly into another kiss. Not his ex-girlfriend, she notes with a little relief. “Try for me. How long were you his Dom?”

“A few months,” he says, his hand sliding between them. She gasps when his fingers slip over her cunt and gently stroke. His fingertips tease her hole when he adds, “He’s a wanderer. I’m lucky I kept him still for so long. We’re still good friends.”

“ _Good_.” She lets out a sigh, wiggling her hips. “I’d like to talk to him before I plan anything with you. I want to know what he thinks of you in hindsight.”

“A wise idea.” Solas nods. His fingers sink into her soft entrance, palm resting against her pussy. He’s rewarded with a happy shudder. While he’s stroking her inner walls, he adds, “I’d like to speak to your last Dominant who wasn’t a felon, as well. In the name of fairness.”

“Nnn. Of course.” Thayet rises against his hand, rocking into Solas’s fingers with a gentle groan. His thumb presses next to her clit, just enough contact and pressure to put heat in her belly, and her thoughts scatter. “I’ll give you, um… keep doing that.”

“Give me what…?” 

He finds her left hand, drawing the prosthesis to his mouth to kiss her fingers. The hum of magic keeps the metal warm as well as deft; Solas hasn’t asked questions about it, but every time he touches it, it’s with a quiet reverence.

Now, he guides her left hand between, encouraging her to wrap it loosely around his half-hard cock. Thayet is careful not to squeeze, incidentally stroking as she lazily bucks into Solas’s fingers.

“Her phone number,” Thayet finally says. “She’s in Val Royeaux, but we keep in touch. I actually lived with her for about a month — I hired her, I should say, to Dominate me as a live-in sub. She’s a _lovely_ person, she… um. _Hmm_. She got my life back together.”

Solas’s hand pauses. “You were a lifestyle slave?” 

“Absolutely. I still see her sometimes. She does _amazing_ things with ice magic and sensation play —- please don’t stop, that feels really nice.”

Thayet squirms, trying to get more attention even when Solas holds her steady. He makes a firm, quiet noise that clearly says _stay put_ without so many words, keeping her still while he carefully leans away, reaching for the side table.

While he’s reaching for a condom, Thayet glances down into the darkness between them. His cock has hardened enough to fill her hand, thick and smooth, beading at the tip. Her mouth waters, enough to make her swallow in anticipation. Her pussy is still soft and a little sore, both from being roughly fingered and from behind fucked earlier, but the idea of a little bit of an ache from taking him inside again only makes her drip against his fingers.

“Did she fuck you?” he asks, offering her a condom by holding it between his first two fingers.

Taking it, she shakes her head. “Oh. No. Or rather, she never touched me sexually,” she continues, rolling the condom over his length while she speaks, “but I was encouraged to get myself off after a good punishment. Occasionally I was ordered to masturbate as part of a self-affirmation thing, but Lady de Fer doesn’t fuck her clients. _Still_ , other than my ex, she knows the most about what I’m like as a sub. She’d be happy to give you a reference.”

“Did you _want_ to fuck her…?” Solas slides his fingers out of her, guiding Thayet forward to take him. 

“ _So_ much. My thighs are a bit sore, though, can we switch…?”

Solas obliges, rolling Thayet onto her back. She squirms comfortably, spreading her thighs for him to settle between and resting her legs around his hips. “Come here,” she murmurs, reaching between them and guiding him inside.

He _sighs_ when he sinks in, burying his cock to the hilt and resting his hips in the cradle of her lap. He tenderly kisses her ear, nuzzling and settling into the circle of her arms. “You’re stunning,” he says, muffled against her hair.

“Mm. Keep saying things like that and I’ll start to think you like me.”


End file.
